Consulting Dark Lord
by Chess Waith
Summary: A Sherlock take on Harry Potter. Voldemort has a part time job as consulting detective Tom Riddle. Together with his reluctant partner, Severus Snape, he solves magical crimes. But then homeless Harry Potter, who was believed dead, comes into the picture with murder and darkness... and unintentional, grumpy romance. Harry/Tom SLASH! Sherlock/HP crossover. Dark!Harry. OOC-ness.
1. A Study In Avada Kedavra

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Harry Potter or BBC's Sherlock!**

**Warnings: Dark!Harry, Eccentric!Tom, OOC-ness, Yaoi, Light Side!Bashing, Slash, M/M, might add warnings later on.**

Chapter 1

A Study In Avada Kedavra

Diagon Alley, unlike the rest of London, was mostly an area of peace and calm. Unless you came there the week before start of Hogwarts term, of course, because by then parents and their children thronged in masses like animals to buy what was required for the upcoming school year. But aside from that, Diagon Alley was pretty safe. The traffic and hideous brainless muggles in London weren't heard of on the magical shopping street, nor was it common with murder or shootings. Mainly because wizards didn't carry guns, but that's beside the point.

Though, that didn't mean crimes were non-existent. Besides, Diagon Alley wasn't the only magical place in Britain. Wizards and witches were murdered here and there all over the country, and since the Aurors from the Ministry were pretty incompetent, it was a good thing Tom Riddle decided to take the situation into his own elegant hands.

His choice of profession had been a way to mock Dumbledore in the beginning. Just to show that old coot that he could make it on his own without the employment he'd been denied as teacher at Hogwarts. Sure, Tom had… other occupations that showed he was independent and powerful, but he couldn't very well go and shout _that _little detail in Dumbledore's face. It'd be bad for his reputations. Both of them.

However, detective business had soon turned out to be rather tedious. The problem wasn't that he often had to travel far outside of Diagon Alley, or that too few mysteries occurred that were brought to him. No, that wasn't a problem at all. People adored him and gladly went to him instead of the imperious Ministry.

But Salazar, wizarding murderers had no imagination! And his clients! He'd never met so many uninteresting, awkward, plain dumb people in his whole lifetime before he started his new career. How hard was it to think for oneself once in a while? Just because their husband was lying unconscious on the ground didn't mean he'd been hit with an _Avada Kedavra_. The curse may not leave any sign on the body, but checking for a pulse before running off to the closest private detective shouldn't have been too much to ask for.

And that spell was another reason for his boredom. Everybody used the Killing Curse. Had they no minds to think of more creative ways? Tom could name a hundred ways of murdering a person out of the top of his mind in only five minutes, so why should it be so hard for the rest of his common criminals?

Well, common and common. Not when he had this job, no, but it wasn't his only one. Oh no, Tom wouldn't do with just that. He enjoyed both occupations, and he needed them equally. Like drugs, but more healthy. Maybe not, though, on second thought. He might have to do a research about it…

"…le? Mr Riddle? Have you fallen asleep?"

Tom started slightly in his brown leather armchair, though he wouldn't admit to it if asked later. Dark Lo… no,_consulting detectives_ were never startled.

He sent the plump little lady in the armchair across from him a dazzling smile that would make any woman low on sugar faint.

"Of course not. I was merely in deep thought, as I hope you understand. A lot of cases are brought to me concerning Death Eater raids as of lately, and there's much on my mind." An incline of his head showed his respect, though false, towards the woman. "Please accept my apology."

She blushed brightly, rather like red balloon in a child's hands, and gave a nervous huff. Tom was sure she would've giggled if she wasn't so strict.

"There's no need, I assure you. I understand perfectly well how much pressure must've been put on your shoulders", she said, a sympathetic look on her face that darkened as she continued. "It's all the bloody Ministry's fault. They don't do a thing to stop it, I say. Just sitting there on their arses in that big fancy building of theirs and keep making excuses about how they don't have the resources to fight You-Know-Who. Honestly! If this goes on much longer, we won't have a mermaid's chance in the desert against the Dark side. Bloody ridiculous!"

She was rather flustered by the end of her passionate speech; cheeks even more flushed and eyes shining with anger and fists clenched on the armrests, with her gaze fixed on something far away in a spot right over Tom's shoulder. Her breathing came out short and harsh and spittle that had flown out of her mouth shone like little pearls now on her neat black skirt.

"Really?" drawled Tom, sounding mildly interested. "I guess it is 'bloody ridiculous'."

The woman gasped, surprised, and snapped her eyes back to the famous private detective. Her mouth fell open as she realized she'd lost her composure in front of the man, and her cheeks flushed, if possible, even redder.

"I- I'm so-" she stuttered.

Tom offered a comforting smile. "Don't worry about it. Everybody deserves to speak their thoughts once in a while, no less such a charming woman as yourself."

Taking deep breaths, and nodding at his words, she calmed down rather quickly and sat straight once more. When she met Tom's gaze, though, she still blushed a little.

"Thank you, Mr Riddle."

"Let's not dwell on it, shall we," he suggested while crossing one leg over the other, placing one elbow on his knee and resting his chin upon his hand. "Now, tell me about your case, Miss…?"

She smiled at him, relieved, and said, "It's Arabella Figg, but you may call me Bella."

A smile tugged at the corners of Tom's mouth. He knew someone else who preferred being called Bella, but that was the only similarity. The Bella he knew wouldn't appreciate being compared to a commoner like Arabella Figg.

"I'd be delighted, Bella. So what's brought you here to ask for my assistance?"

Arabella appeared a bit put out when he didn't offer her to use his first name, but shook her head slightly and dove into her story. Tom, awaiting yet another tale about hexed tea pots or suspected dragons in gardens, was not expecting the words that came from the elderly woman's lips.

"There's been a series of mysterious murders in Muggle London. Terrible, it is, but as the muggle police - they're a bit like Aurors - has yet to-"

Tom had to interrupt her here. "Excuse me, madame?" he asked, almost incredulous.

Arabella nodded eagerly, scooting out on the edge of the chair in excitement. "Oh yes. Five dead bodies, they said on the news this morning, and all in the same area. Apparently one of them was an infamous drug dealer the police had been after for ages. That simply can't be a coincidence! The rest of them were all drunken homeless men, except this one-"

"Miss Figg, please!" exclaimed the handsome man, making her jump in her chair.

"What is the matter, Mr Riddle?" she asked, bewildered. She looked hurt from his raised voice, but obviously tried not to show it.

Tom sighed and rubbed his forehead. Another one! Well, what had he expected?

"I don't do muggle cases, Miss. I only take interest in magical crimes", he explained patiently, as if talking to a child.

Figg nodded, her distress gone. "But that's just it", she told him. "They're not muggle."

Stilling completely, the detective narrowed his eyes at the old woman sitting in his assistant's armchair, dressed in a short brown coat covered in cat fur. "You said they occurred in _Muggle_ London. And as far as I know, only _muggle_ drug dealers trade in _Muggle_ London, not illegal potions dealers."

"Oh, well, you're right, of course. It all seems rather muggle", agreed Figg happily, like a school girl about to tell her friends the gossip of the year. She held up her wrinkled hand and held up one finger. "One was a muggle drug dealer." Three other fingers joined the first. "Three were homeless muggles, two with criminal records." The thumb represented the fifth victim. "And the last one was just this early morning. A finely dressed man identified as one Rufus Scrimgeour."

Tom did _not_ gasp softly and his eyes did _not_ widen. "And the method of murder?" he breathed, barely able to sit still after hearing the, apparently, dead Auror's name. He could barely believe his ears.

Arabella Figg grinned, showing off yellowed teeth in the most unattractive way, but the dark haired man simply couldn't bring himself to care anymore.

"The cops have no idea", said Arabella smugly. "There were no signs of how they died."

**~/-\\\~**

_Twelve hours earlier, Muggle London._

The alleyway lay dark and quiet when Auror Rufus Scrimgeour stumbled into its shadows. No, not Auror, he corrected himself. _Head of Auror Office_, that's what he was. And a great one, too. The best one in the latest four hundred years or so, at least. No one killed off disgusting Death Eaters like him. Not Shacklebolt or Moody or any of those other little buggers that tried to steal his place.

"No!" he growled to himself forcefully, and almost stumbled over an empty cardboard box. He glared at it, vision a little blurry thanks to the Firewhisky, and kicked it as hard as he could, promptly falling on his arse in the process.

Rufus groaned as the world spun and rested the back of his head against the cold hard ground. _Shouldn't move too quickly. Bad idea_, he noted to himself and struggled to sit up. The contents of his stomach rose happily in his throat at the opportunity of getting out, but Rufus swallowed stubbornly and squeezed his eyes shut.

It'd been a long night - far too long - and he was tired. Actually, on second thought, the pavement under him wasn't really _that_ uncomfortable. Maybe he could take just one small nap...

Just as he was about to do that, his ears picked up on a sound in the dark; something akin to a snicker. Eyes snapping open, he peered into the alleyway, only to grumble frustratedly seconds later. Everything he saw was bloody swirls of black and darkness. The light from the street behind him didn't reach this far.

"Useless muggle lamps", he muttered and gave up on trying to see what had made the sound. It was probably just a muggle lying there, just as drunk as Rufus himself. Or it was nothing. Yeah, it was probably nothing...

Rufus didn't like muggles. Neither was he a racist, but non-magical people to him were like very big rocks. They didn't fulfil any use and were just plainly in the way, taking up more space than they were worth. Actually, muggles were worse than big rocks, because you could build houses with rocks. He imagined it'd be difficult to build _anything_ with muggle bodies.

But just like big rocks, he didn't actually care about the muggles. Not like You-Known-Who did. That's why the dark wizard wanted to kill all of them; because he _hated _them. Rufus just very much disliked them.

Still, Rufus wasn't allowed to express his... mild disgust. Not out loud. If he did, he'd be sacked and his reputation would be ruined. And again, it was the muggles' fault, he reasoned. For if there hadn't been any muggles, he couldn't dislike them, now could he? There'd be no muggles to dislike! Hm, maybe the Dark Lord had a tiny point, after all...

It took a long while for the Head Auror to pull himself out of his drunken thoughts. Once he did, he had no idea of how long he'd been sitting there in the alley, just staring into the dark. Rufus frowned. He really must be extremely drunk. How had he even gotten himself into Muggle London in the first place? It had to be one of his colleagues' fault. They were always trying to get him fired.

Grumbling incoherent words about untrustworthy imbeciles and traitors that let him get too drunk, Rufus Scrimgeour struggled to his feet. When his knees felt too much like jelly, he leaned against a nearby container. He'd never been so thankful for something that contained garbage ever before.

Getting a brilliant idea, Rufus leaned over and pressed his heated forehead against the wonderfully cool lid of the container. He groaned loudly, but wrinkled his nose when he smelt his own breath against the plastic surface. Ugh.

He pulled out his wand, which had won many bloody and honourable battles, to clean his mouth of the vulgar stench of alcohol. He had just cast the spell, which possessed a soft baby blue light, when a gasp came from the shadows.

Rufus spun around, almost tripping over his own feet, with a sneer or his face. There were no doubts this time. He was sure he'd heard someone! However, the damn darkness revealed nothing, and the Auror growled as he pointed his wand at where he thought the sound had come from. If someone asked later, he'd deny that his hand was shaking. At the moment, he blamed the Firewhisky.

"Show yourself, muggle!" he demanded loudly. His voice was followed by a chilling silence echoed by the traffic of London at night. A weak wind passed through the narrow alley, rustling some plastic bags on its way and causing a shiver to run down the drunk wizard's spine. He squinted into the shadows. If he strained his ears, he could almost imagine he heard someone breathing. Yes, there was definitely a person over there.

Rufus growled - a low rumbling from deep within his chest - and took a threatening step towards the bastard.

"I said, SHOW YOURSELF!" he roared and slashed his wand through the air. The movement was immediately followed by an almost soundless moan and a thump as a body fell back against a wall. Rufus smirked darkly. Even under the influence of alcohol, he delivered the best non-verbal cutting curses. That'd put the muggle scum in place.

Breathing could be heard now. They sounded strained, like the person was in a lot of pain. Well, of course they were. They'd just been sliced open by a drunk Auror!

But said Auror started to feel troubled when he thought over his actions. Although he didn't exactly regret it, maybe cursing a muggle wasn't the best thing to do if you were a man with a reputation to uphold. And having the blood of a possibly innocent person on his hands didn't sound all that good either. From the sound of it, his victim wouldn't hold up much longer if he didn't do something soon.

Raking through his mind on knowledge about healing spells, he remembered a few that he'd learned during his Auror training. He was unsure, though, if they'd work on the gash he'd meant to create, since the spells were only supposed to work on shallow cuts and minor injuries.

_Better than nothing_, he muttered mentally as he made up his mind to give it a try. _It's the damn muggle's fault anyway. Shouldn't sneak up on me like some creep. Don't they know who I am?_

Rufus shook his head as if to clear it and held up his wand in front of him, crouching in front of the person.

"_Lumos_", he murmured at the same time as he scolded himself for not thinking about doing this earlier. He had to verbally utter the spell, since the cutting curse was only one of few he could cast silently. Oh well, he'd just have to _Obliviate_ the muggle later so they wouldn't remember him using magic.

The darkness cleared to give way to the light erupting from the tip of his wand. Rufus looked down to see the frozen form of a boy sitting curled up against the wall with his legs drawn close to their body and arms wrapped around himself, all while blood oozed from a deep gash on his upper arm and shoulder. Rufus winced a slightly when he noticed how close to the heart he'd cut. That must've hurt.

"Hey", he called to get the other's attention. The boy had his head bowed so Rufus couldn't see his face. This frustrated him and he repeated himself with a louder voice. "Hey! Oh, for Merlin's sake... Don't tell me you're dead already."

The Auror knew that the boy was still alive, of course, because he was visibly breathing and trembling ever so slightly. That led to the man getting angry and he scowled deeply. Such disrespect! Here he was, trying to help, and the brat wouldn't even look at him.

"That's it, muggle. If you don't face me this second, I'm going to have to take to violence and it won't be pretty."

To other ears, his threat may have seemed strange since what he wanted was to heal the boy, not hurt him more. But that logic didn't strike Rufus as reasonable at that moment. He was sure there was some magical law stating that yes, Aurors were allowed to use violence if muggles didn't do as they were ordered to.

The boy, whom he guessed was a young teenager, didn't move one inch aside from taking deep breaths. Rufus' lips thinned in rage and he reached over with his wand-free hand and grabbed ebony black curls in a vicious grip. He pulled, hard, so that the head was forced up.

"Look here", he spat in his furious drunken state. "You do as I-"

He stopped then, for he couldn't continue. The words he was about to say got stuck in his throat and he felt his mouth go dry. Rufus' eyes went wide with horror as he looked into those of the boy beneath him. No, not a boy. Something else. Something awful. Something that wasn't human.

"What the-?"

Releasing the hair as if he'd been burned, the Auror scrambled away from the thing; so quickly he lost his balance and fell on his behind once again. But this time he barely noticed. All he saw was _that_.

In the dimming light of his _Lumos_, blood red eyes appeared to shine. Rufus couldn't look away. It was like it had nothing else on its face, because all he could look at was those eyes.

...Eyes that he'd only ever seen before on one particular Dark Lord.

The boy-like thing didn't say anything. It just looked at him. If there was emotion in the gaze or not, Rufus could not tell. To put it bluntly, he didn't care. All he cared about was getting away from it.

"What the fuck!?" he yelled, scrambling further away and trying to hold his wand steadily aimed at the same time.

Tilting his head to the side, the thing eyed him almost curiously. Rufus felt his breath catch in his throat and his heart beat like he had a heart attack. Curiosity was never a good thing when it came to dark things. Never.

From the now nearly extinguished light from his wand, the Auror watched the red-eyed creature slowly unfold its arms and starting to rise from its sitting position. Every movement seemed painful and took forever, but Rufus found he couldn't come up with a single curse to cast even as his panic grew.

Just when he thought it couldn't get worse, his back hit the opposite wall of the alley and he froze. Maybe it was the fear; maybe it was the alcohol slowing down his senses. It didn't matter what the reason was. Rufus was paralysed, rooted to the spot.

At this point, the thing was standing and leaning against its own wall, breathing nearly as heavily as the drunk man. A large dark stain was spreading alarmingly quickly over the fabric of his left shoulder. All Rufus could hope for was that the creature would pass out from the blood loss before it could do anything to him.

It was then that the _Lumos_ finally went out completely and he was left staring blindly into the darkness, no longer able to see the thing. Of course, this did nothing to soothe his nerves. He gripped his wand tighter, knuckles whitening, and gasped for breath. He was panicking. He couldn't remember ever feeling so scared before in his entire life. If only he hadn't drunk so much tonight...

A rustle of clothes came from the shadows. Rufus' soles scraped against the pavement as he desperately tried to get further away. It never occurred to him that he could get up and run. All he could process was the creature he feared and the fact that he was close to pissing himself.

Another rustle, like fabric against fabric when someone walked. The Auror called out with a trembling voice, "D-don't come any closer! I'm warning you! Stay away you- you- _freak_!"

He was met by silence. Complete, utter, deafening, silence. He couldn't even make out breathing anymore, aside for his own. Not a single sound penetrated it. The cars in the distance seemed like nothing. In the end, there was only the sound of Rufus' racing heart.

And then he was seeing the creature again, accompanied by the crackling sound of a fire. But there was no fire, and that face didn't look exactly the same. The ghostly pale skin had a green shine to it, and the sick colour reflected in its red eyes. Those eyes that had been emotionless, but that now gleamed rage. A slender hand was raised in front of its chest, and between the delicate fingers danced a flickering green light that illuminated the almost handsome face.

If Rufus' eyes could've gone wider, they would've when he saw that image. No... it wasn't possible. Not wandlessly, non-verbally. It couldn't be...

He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw the creature's lips move and heard a voice saying softly,

"I'm not a freak."

And then there was nothing at all.

No one ever saw the flash of green light exploding from one of many dark alleys in London. The next morning, a man was found pressed up against the wall with a look of horror on his face and a tight grip on a strange stick. Alarming amounts of blood were also discovered, but there were no wounds on the body and no match was found when the blood was tested.

There was only the dead body of Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Department. Hours later, there was also the very curious wizard detective known as Tom Riddle, lurking around in the shadows of the crime scene.

Hm.

Very curious, indeed.


	2. 221B Diagon Alley

A thick fog of some unidentified substance swirled lazily in the cramped apartment of 221B Diagon Alley. It only grew thicker with time, as the windows were all firmly closed and the ventilation spell had worn out long ago. Unlike normal fog, this one held a weird smell of something alike dead fishes and sugar pastry mixed together.

Soft sounds of boiling liquids came from the kitchen area, where the smoke was considerably thicker. An unpractised eye wouldn't have noticed the tall dark shape moving expertly around the small kitchen table in the centre. On the surface were multiple cauldrons filled to the brim of boiling potions, spread out ingredients, strangely shaped tools, and empty jars and vials ready to be filled.

The shape wasn't just a shape. In fact, it was a grown man wearing very dark clothes and a concentrated frown on his face (as he should; he was after all brewing several different potions at once). What he was doing was risky, and others would call him crazy, but he wasn't called a Master for nothing.

He was just about to get to the part where he needed to add diced hippogriff eyes to one potion and stir clockwise fifteen times in another one, when the sound of the door to the apartment opening reached his ears. He sneered angrily, and was going to snarl to whoever it was, that any draft in the room could potentially destroy hours of work, but thought better of it.

Only two people besides himself ever barged into the apartment without knocking. One was the old widowed landlady, Mrs Francis Harper, and the other was his employer and Lord, Tom Riddle.

"Severus?" came a distinctly male voice from the living room, which was also a hallway. The apartment wasn't very big, and therefore one room had to work for multiple uses. Such as the kitchen being more of a potions lab than an actual kitchen, for example.

"In the kitchen, my Lord", replied Severus in a voice made as monotone as possible to hide his undeniable frustration at being disturbed in the middle of his work.

Steps moved towards him in the fog. Soon he could make out the face and form of his Lord through the thick fumes.

Riddle stood still for a while and looked over the contents in the cauldrons. He picked up a stray toad skull near the edge of the table and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger.

"Choking potion?" he asked and met the Potion's Master's eyes. Severus tilted his head slightly down in submission.

"Thrombus draught, my Lord. Choking potion require bird skulls, not toad." There was no rise of any eyebrows on his part, of course.

Riddle didn't answer. He simply placed the ingredient back on the table and pulled out a chair, in which he sat down gracefully.

Severus let a few seconds tick by, but when it became clear that the detective would remain silent, he returned to his work with a fervour. One more minute of waiting and they could expect three rather impressive simultaneous explosions.

Half an hour went by until Severus came to a stage where one potion was complete, two needed to cool without magic and the other four would be left to boil undisturbed for a minimum of forty five minutes. The now rather greasy haired man took a step back from the table, made sure everything was as it should, and sat down in a chair opposite to Riddle.

It didn't surprise him that the man had sat there for the entire half hour he'd been working. Sometimes Severus would leave early in the morning, leaving his Lord sitting in one of the armchairs by the fireplace. He'd come back that same night, or even the next day, and find Riddle had barely moved.

"Arabella Figg came by this morning", said Riddle suddenly, breaking the silence. Severus turned to look at him, but the man was staring intensely at the cupboard under the sink.

"Squib?" questioned Severus, recognising the name but only vaguely.

His Lord nodded and rested his elbows on each armrest. His hands met under his chin, pressed together in a gesture that was familiar to his assistant. It was a sign Riddle was in deep thought.

"Muggle raised or magical?"

"Raised in the Wizarding World until it became apparent that she was a squib. She's been living in the muggle world for the larger part of her life", explained Riddle absent-mindedly. "Very familiar with the magical world, however."

"And she brought a case?"

"Indeed."

"Anything of interest?" The fog thickened further, making it hard for him to see more than Riddle's profile. Without an air-cleaning spell put on his mouth and nose, Severus would've had problems breathing. Despite him working in the kitchen quite often, he'd never seen his Lord using any similar spells. Perhaps the foul air didn't bother him.

"A series of murders in muggle London", the man said. Severus studied him. There was no wall between the kitchen and the living room, leaving it all an open area. It was daytime yet, and the light streaming in through the windows in the living room was dulled down by the mist. Nearly no light reached the kitchen area. Riddle's unclear silhouette against the dull shine gave the man quite the aura.

"Muggle, my Lord?" Severus was only slightly taken aback, thanks to his Occlumency shield helping him repress feelings.

"Exactly my first thought as well, Severus." Riddle finally glanced up at him. "But it seems there is more to this case than I first anticipated. The first four victims were muggles, the last one a wizard. The Killing Curse was used on them all."

"Has the wizard been identified?"

"Rufus Scrimgeour."

Severus blanched. Scrimgeour? That was... unexpected. Not only because he was the Head of Auror Department and a skilled wizard, but also...

"What was Scrimgeour doing in Muggle London?" he murmured, mostly to himself. As an Auror, Scrimgeour should've had very little to do with the muggle world in general. Especially in London. When Death Eaters attacked, it was mostly in smaller villages or places of importance to the Light side and the Order of the Pheonix. How had Scrimgeour ended up dead in London?

"He was intoxicated", Riddle told him. "The body was found in an alley not too far from the Leaky Cauldron, propped up against the wall behind a garbage container. There was dried blood in the crime scene, but not wound on the corpse. The frozen expression of fear on his face points to the Avada Kedavra."

Severus scowled thoughtfully. The blood suggested a fight; either a drunken brawl, a surprise attack or a planned assassination gone wrong. Next to no wizards or witches had business in London, so the chance of Scrimgeour running into someone with magic was slim.

"Last spells?" he asked finally, knowing his Lord most probably knew already. He always did, somehow.

"_Diffindo_, _Lumos_, and a breath freshening charm. We can assume there wasn't a real duel going on before he died. Very little harm was done to the walls of the alley, proving the point." Riddle paused, looking away from his partner and to the lighter living room. He let out a small huff of air, causing the fog in front of his face to swirl. "I felt the remains of two magical auras; Scrimgeour's and someone else's."

"You didn't recognise it, my Lord?"

Silence. The soft bubbling of the boiling potions was the only sound penetrating the suddenly very quiet atmosphere. The sound that Severus usually found relaxing now made him feel uncomfortable and tense. The silence stretched between them, like a muggle rubber band. In the end, it was the Dark Lord that snapped it.

"I'm not sure", he said softly, in a not-so-soft way, if that made any sense. He spoke slower than usual, as if he was unsure of what to say. "In some ways it felt familiar, but at the same time new. It was... different."

Nothing more was said after that. Riddle stood from the chair and retreated to his barely used bedroom without another word. Severus sat alone for a while longer, pondering his Lord's new case and how the man had acted, before casting a _tempus_. Almost forty five minutes had passed. Severus returned to his brewing, working mindlessly.

It came as no surprise when he several minutes later noticed he was one frog skull short. The Potion's Master gave a snort. He could only hope this didn't turn out to be one of his Lord's new obsessions. After all, Severus needed those skulls.

~~~!~~~

"Lestrange."

Rabastan Lestrange looked up from the criminal records of a recently caught Death Eater spread out on his desk. The file was a mess, which was more than he could say about the Auror Department it belonged to. The war had made a dent in the Ministry and this was one of the places where it had struck hardest. The Department lost an average of four Aurors each passing month, making it about one a week.

The voice calling his name belonged to Chanter; an older female Auror with a Pureblood background, though she herself was a half blood. His office door was cracked open, allowing the woman to peek her head through.

"Yes, Chanter?" he said politely with only the faintest hint of a drawl in his voice. But what more could one expect of him? He'd been stuck there for too long to not be bitter about it.

"Dennis is waiting for you to clear the office, sir. You need to move", said Chanter. Her voice was rather clipped, which fit her as she was a rather strict looking woman. No wonder she was a distant relative to Minerva McGonagall, professor in Charms at Hogwarts. He wouldn't be surprised if that was the reason for the Auror's surname.

Rabastan often enjoyed the witch's company, but now a deep scowl forced its way onto his handsome features.

"Have I been fired?" he questioned, rather harshly but not angrily. Inside, he started forming a plan. If he'd been found out, he'd need to escape quickly. And he'd have to find his Lord and... probably explain why he lost his position. The Dark Lord wouldn't be happy with him.

Chanter raised her eyebrows, as if surprised. "You haven't been informed, sir?"

Rabastan's scowl deepened further. "Informed about what?"

His colleague sighed irritatedly and slipped into the office, closing the door behind her. She wisely kept her distance from his desk, and he noticed her left arm was tensed and ready to go for her wand. He would've smirked at her paranoia, but he wasn't in the mood any longer.

"Auror Scrimgeour was found dead early this morning in London", said Chanter, looking him right in the eye but keeping her voice low in respect. If it was for him or for Scrimgeour, Rabastan didn't know. Maybe it was both.

Rabastan didn't show any emotion when he asked, "Has Kingsley been told?"

As Scrimgeours second in command, Kingsley would take over as Head of Auror Department if the current one died or disappeared. Therefore, it came as a bit of a surprise when Chanter said,

"No, sir." He knew he wasn't imagining the trace of disappointment and a bit of trepidation in the witch's voice. "Auror Kingsley has been away on a mission for over two weeks, sir, and is not expected to be back in another month. We haven't been able to reach him."

This new information had Rabastan sitting a little straighter in his office chair. Had he been a dog, his ears would have perked and his tail wagged slightly.

"And Moody?" He almost didn't dare to breath when Chanter didn't answer immediately. She stared at him long and hard, and he was about ready to growl at her and demand she answer when finally she spoke.

"He hasn't been in for a while", she said slowly. She seemed suspicious, and Rabastan forced himself to stay less obvious. She continued, "The Minister himself deemed Auror Moody as unfit for the job after the last couple of years. When he comes back, he's under order to take some time off." It was quite visible on her tone that she disapproved.

The younger Lestrange's eyes widened slightly when he realized what that meant. A strange shine filled them and he made himself look down at his desk again to make sure he didn't reveal anything to Chanter. His pulse raced a little faster and a satisfied smirk threatened to break out on his face.

From the door, he heard Chanter take a deep breath and officially announce the great news.

"Well, you're third in line. Congratulations, sir, you're the new Head of Auror Department." He nodded absently. Seconds later the door opened and his colleague left the office.

Rabastan finally let himself smile. When he did, it was broad and wolfish and full of shark white teeth. Oh, his Lord would be so pleased. And his brother. He'd tell Rodolphus soon, tonight maybe, and they could go out and have a few drinks in celebration.

The Death Eater at the Auror's office chuckled darkly. He'd said before that the department was a mess, right? Well, it wasn't anything near the compete chaos he'd turn it into very soon.

The Ministry wouldn't know what hit it until it was too late.


	3. Not A Psychopath

**I own nothing, either from Sherlock or Harry Potter.**

* * *

Harry was in pain.

It wasn't unbearable. It was the sort of pain he'd learned to live with at a young age. It didn't bother him too much and wasn't very difficult to tune out, but he knew it was potentially dangerous. He looked down at the wound causing the pain and he saw the gash over his heart that refused to stop bleeding. It was hours old, yet the cut was stubborn and stayed wide open. It was a miracle Harry had only passed out once from dizziness.

He traced the outline of the wound with his fingertips, winching when the action caused spikes of pain to shoot through his body like electricity. If he used his hands to pull the sides apart, it was deep enough for him to see muscle.

He'd found an uneaten but outdated apple in a dustbin and taken it with him. Now he sat in one of the many tiny parks of London, eating that apple and tending his wound with a baby blanket he 'borrowed' from a father that wasn't paying much attention to his child. He supposed he could've taken the bottle of gruel too, but he wasn't feeling that desperate for food today.

The sky was a typical grey, now that the sun had risen. Rain hung in the sky, but hadn't yet fallen. The park was empty for the most part, which wasn't surprising seeing as it was Monday. It was also June and Harry would've hoped for better weather this summer. The cold winters were hard and tough and he craved for some rest from the cold biting nights when he couldn't find enough shelter to keep himself warm.

It was illegal to sleep in parks, but Harry had gotten away with it a good few dozen times. Instead of sleeping in park benches in the open, he crept under the big bushes that were nearly the sizes of tanks, and slept on the ground.

Today that trick would prove to be extra helpful, as the blood from his wound seeped directly into the earth, leaving very little trace. After the next sky fall, he imagined all the evidence would be washed away.

Sighing and giving up on his wound, Harry lay back on the blood moistened ground and stared up at the sky through the many layers of leaves. If he used his imagination, the bush was almost like a little house for a very tiny person and he was a giant visiting. The ghost of a pulled at his lips. Childish dreams, they were. But since he had no one in his life to judge him, he was allowed to dream however he liked.

And now, light-headed and exhausted from the blood loss, dreams came easier than normal. Under the covering blanket of leaves, Harry's eyes fluttered closed.

He lay there for an uncertain amount of time, dreaming of wooden sticks that made light and brilliant sparks of green dancing across his palm; warm yet cold, light yet dark, electric yet... pleasant.

Harry sighed, opening his eyes again. Lifting his right hand, he stared at the calloused palm above him. It was dirty, but not horribly so. Some of his own blood had dried under his nails and the skinned was webbed with tiny old scars.

He'd killed someone this early morning, he realised. Well, not realised; he'd known already. He just didn't think of it until now.

It had never been his intention to kill the entertaining drunk man with the funny clothes. Really. He didn't regret it, but... he hadn't meant to. Kind of like accidentally stepping on a stick and breaking it. It didn't matter to him if the stick broke or not. It was just a stick.

Normal people, Harry thought, didn't compare strangers to sticks. Harry had the idea that every man, woman and child had very much in common with sticks. Some were straight, some were not. Some were long, others short. Some sticks were almost as hard as stone, while others withered apart in your hand at the smallest pressure.

Sticks were brown. They all were. Just different shades, but they were all brown and they were all wood.

Harry imagined he was a sick stick. He wasn't brown like everyone else. He was green and red and burnt black, made of iron and clay. He didn't belong with the other sticks in the trees.

He frowned.

He was a murderer now, several times in a row. Did that make him a serial killer? He guessed so.

Harry the Cold Blooded Serial Killer. Maybe he'd make it to the front page of the newspapers outside the tourist kiosks tomorrow morning. He wondered how they'd portray him. As a psychopath, most likely.

The frown deepened.

He wasn't a psychopath. He was a high-functional abomination.

They ought to do their research.

~~~!~~~

Night-time had arrived when Harry opened his eyes next. He'd only meant to blink, but he must've fallen asleep. The air had turned cool and crisp and it was dark under the bush.

Rolling onto his side, Harry groaned when the movement put pressure on his wound. Fumbling with his hand over his heart, he almost breathed a sigh of relief when he felt the blood on his soaked shirt had finally dried. That meant the wound was healing, at least, if he didn't just rip it open all over again. He lay still on his side and waited for the wet feeling of blood. When none came, he dared to push himself up into a sitting position and proceeded to crawl out of the bush.

There wasn't anyone but him around the park at the moment. That was good. It had been difficult enough to walk around London in daylight dressed in dirty clothes and dripping of blood without being noticed. He'd been forced to use his weirdness and changed his looks, so people thought he was dressed up as a zombie. An extra bit of force and he'd stopped the blood from leaving a trail behind him. He regretted he hadn't done that in the alley, but he doubted anyone would find him based on his blood. Harry was a nobody, and nobodies weren't registered at the police.

He hadn't gone very far away. Again and again he told himself it was too risky to stay nearby the dead body, but a big part of him couldn't imagine leaving now.

That man, whom he had killed last night, had been like him. Different. An abomination. Harry had never met anyone else like him before. The events last night made his mind reel with questions and possibilities. Who had he been, that man? Were there more like him out there? How many? Could they all do what he could?

Were they all killers?

And maybe most important of all; could he really call himself an abomination now? For if there were others like him, that meant he was normal, didn't it? That he wasn't a...

But no. The man had called him that word. The word Harry's Uncle and Aunt used to call him, and what he thought his name was until age seven when Aunt Marge came by for Christmas and called him a "Hairy pig", obviously making a pun of his name. The word that sent cold chills down his back and made him twitch.

And the look in the man's eyes when he saw Harry's face. Or rather, when he noticed the shade of his eyes. The clear, yet dark red of the irises weren't normal.

Actually, only his left eye was red normally. Unless he was really upset or felt threatened, his right eye was green. Now, for example, he was calm which meant his left eye stayed ruby red and the right eye emerald green. He wasn't sure if it had always been like that. Sometimes, he thought he could remember his younger self looking into the mirror in the hallway of his relatives' house and meeting his own, both green, eyes in the reflection.

Harry let his ability do its work on changing his features and started walking out the park. His bloodied shirt turned clean and white, the blood morphed into a plastic print and the words "Manly period" was written over the front in black bold letters. He picked up an empty glass bear bottle and a plastic bag from an overflowing dustbin. In one single motion, Harry pulled the bag to his head. Before it touched his hair, the plastic turned to fabric and transformed into a navy blue cap with "Captain" on the front. With a flick of the wrist, the empty bear bottle flickered and suddenly he was holding a plain pair of cheap-looking shades.

Harry was ready to be seen in less than a minute. No-one had seen his little tricks, as he seemingly hadn't done much out of the ordinary. The motions were all practised, normal, and fluid. It was no wonder, since Harry had performed the same act nearly every day for the last seven or eight years.

Now properly dressed and eyes effectively hidden behind the sun glasses, Harry had no problems moving though the crowds. It was Monday night, and rather late, but a lot of people were on their way home from work. Harry blended in like a grain of sand on the beach.

He was moving in the wrong direction. A voice - quite loud, mind you - was screaming at him in the back of his head that he was risking it, but the pull was too strong. It was as if he had a thick rope tied tightly around his waist and someone was pulling hard in the other end; an end he couldn't yet see.

Harry told himself he just wanted a peek of the crime scene. Nobody would suspect him for being a curious teenage boy.

Rounding another corner, Harry knew he was there when he spotted the remaining police cars and the yellow tape blocking off the alley from last night. A lot of important-looking people were still milling about, but Harry guessed it hadn't really been that long. After all, he had killed that man less than twenty four hours ago.

And there was barely a thought of regret in his mind.

The closer he got to the crime scene, the quicker his pulse raced. He reckoned it was the thrill of being caught that got his blood pumping, but then he realised it was not. Harry didn't want to get caught, just as little as he wished to be suspected for murder.

No, what Harry truly, deeply, desired was a tiny proof that he wasn't alone.

He slowed down near the scene and stopped by the bus stop no longer than twenty feet away. He pretended to look at the map, ignoring the interested gaze he received from the obviously older, though still young, woman next to him. She'd lose her interest soon. They all did.

Casting a quick glance to the taped off area, his eyes skimmed the alley. He immediately noticed the body was gone. No surprise there. He just wondered where they'd put it. And who "they" were.

Looking back to the spider web of a bus map, Harry heaved a heavy groan-like sigh and rubbed his cheek frustratedly. His shoulders slumped appropriately, a light frown decorated his features, and he pursed his lips disappointedly.

A soft "hrm-hrm" came from the general direction of the young woman who'd been eyeing him for the past two minutes. Harry knew she'd seen his upset acting. Of course she had, he was a good actor.

He glanced at her over his shoulder, putting on a questioning expression as if unsure if she meant him. She was tall, he observed, and wore skinny jeans. He didn't bother to put anything else on his mind.

She saw him looking and beamed at him. Harry turned his head in the opposite direction, checking to be sure that she wasn't addressing someone else. There wasn't.

Brilliant.

The young woman opened her mouth and said-

"I'm in a hurry", Harry interrupted quickly, causing her to falter and stutter. His voice was clipped, but could perhaps be mistaken for shy. He forced a small blush onto his cheeks to make it seem legit and gracefully slid past her, away from the bus stop.

Enough was enough, he told himself as he passed the parked police cars and kept walking. He'd seen it now, and there hadn't been anything out of the ordinary going on. Well, except for the little group of curious pensioners currently flocking around a poor policeman. They hardly counted, though.

He walked in the direction of the park he'd spent most of the day sleeping in. The little trip around town was already taking its toll on his weakened body and his stomach was grumbling for food. With a last glance over his shoulder, Harry left the murder behind him and returned to what had been his life for eight years now. The streets, where he belonged; alone and unknown.

~~~!~~~

Tom stood surrounded by old men and women smelling of flowery perfumes and porridge. He was slowly, but steadily, starting to regret his choice of disguise. Wrinkly, veiny hands kept finding their ways onto his arms while he was forced to patiently listen to some description of beloved grandchildren and old times.

What a waste. He would have yawned, had he been a lesser man.

The great wizard detective was ready to whip out his wand and Crucio the toothless man in the wheelchair, when he caught up on a change in the air around him. Graceful as he was, nothing showed on his face, but his eyes strayed searchingly over the thinning crowds. He breathed in a slow, deep breath through his nostrils and began scanning the masses with earnest. Whoever it was, was nearby.

Another deep breath...

And, oh, that aura. So up close, is was as irresistibly dark as his routine morning coffee.

Lost in thought, it took a while to realise the presence was gradually growing weaker. The target was moving away. Faster and faster.

"Excuse me", he told the ring of old people around him. Tom made a (graceful) dash for a small space between two wrinkly little corpulent women. But they wouldn't have it. As if on cue, they moved closer to each other and cooed at him adoringly. He was forced to stop, not wanting to draw attention to himself by pushing them out of his way. At the same time, he felt the aura lowering to a mere whisper to his senses.

Tom snapped and sneered viciously.

"Move", he hissed at the ladies, a mixture between English and Parsteltounge.

The little women squeaked but didn't move an inch. Tom decided pushing them didn't seem as such a bad idea after all, and silently cursed the laws against apparating in muggle public.

When Tom finally escaped he ring, the aura had faded to nothing. A dark scowl twisted his usually handsome face.

He'd kill those pensioners.

* * *

**AN/ That's that chapter then! I love reviews so please leave one and tell me if you liked it, hated it, or just feel "meh" about it. I'll send you all imaginary dragons!**


	4. Bloody Harpoon

Severus was seated in his armchair by the fireplace, reading the morning's edition of _The Daily Prophet _and sipping on some coffee, when the door to the apartment slammed open. He glanced briefly at his Lord, looked away, froze, and turned to stare at Riddle.

"That was tedious", grumbled the detective, breath forced.

"You walked through Diagon Alley like that?" Severus nearly burst out, completely forgetting to add 'my Lord' at the sight of Riddle covered in blood from head to toe, breathing heavily and holding... was that a _harpoon?_

Riddle wiped his face off the still not dry fluid and flicked it off his fingers, causing drops of blood to splatter on the wall.

"I wore glamours", he assured his partner fleetingly and made his way to his bedroom door, which was to be found next to the fireplace. "I trust your morning's been pleasant?"

"Quite", mumbled Severus absent-mindedly and watched Riddle leaning the bloodied harpoon against the mantelpiece. "And you, my Lord?"

"I've had better." Riddle's voice muffled when he disappeared into the single bedroom. Severus sighed quietly.

"May I ask what use the harpoon was for?" he asked and continued to read the newspaper. A rustle of cloth came from the other room, telling him Riddle was changing.

"I got a firecall from a retired wizard living by the coast early this morning. His crops had been eaten off. Turns out it wasn't the seagulls that stole from him, but a flock of Thestrals living in the area. I took care of them." He emerged from his bedroom, looking neat and tidy in black robes.

"Thestrals don't bleed, my Lord", Severus pointed out and turned the page.

"Too true, Severus", said Riddle, a sharp edge to his tone that told the Potions Master all he needed to know. Severus let it go.

"Scrimgeour's murder made it to the front page", drawled the hooked nosed man and closed the newspaper to show the first page. He felt Riddle's presence behind him as the man eyed the headlines. Riddle hummed, as though amused.

"What a flattering picture."

Severus smirked. Indeed it was. It seemed _The Daily Prophet_ had been in quite the hurry with finding a previously unused photograph of the now dead Auror, that they hadn't properly looked over what they published before it was out. The moving picture featured a stoic, proud Rufus Scrimgeour marching towards the camera through the entrance hall of the Ministry of Magic. The man then, suddenly, tripped on the rather flat floor and fell gracelessly on his face. The Auror was out of frame for a second, then rose again, brushed himself off hectically, and resumed walking. Since it was a cheap magical picture, the film was played over and over again, turning the serious and gloomy article into something darkly humorous.

Severus folded the paper in half and put it away on the tiny table beside the armchair. He picked up his halfway full cup of coffee and rose. When he entered the kitchen, Riddle stood by the open fridge and was putting in little round things where the eggs were supposed to go. They came from a leather pouch in his hand.

Yes, they had a fridge. Most of the magical population, even the muggle loving part of it, was anxious of bringing muggle technology into the home. Neither Severus nor Riddle had any interest whatsoever in increasing the muggle influence on the Wizarding World. However, both men having grown up in muggle homes, there were certain things they both had a hard time living without.

It was harder on Severus' part. He had grown up in a more modern society than Riddle. He was used to fridges and toasters and electrical lighting, contrary to housekeeping spells and restoration charms on the food. It felt extremely unclean not to put the milk into the refrigerator. Severus couldn't help but think it would be sour the next time he drank it, no matter if it had been magically cooled or not.

The one disadvantage with sharing a fridge with Riddle was the body parts. The detective couldn't seem to keep his experiments out of the kitchen. Like now, for example, the man was storing up on what looked suspiciously like eyeballs. Now, Severus had nothing against eyeballs when he used them as potions ingredient, but he knew very well that Riddle wasn't planning on using them for anything of the sort.

The Potions Master looked away, feeling only mildly repulsed. Those eyes looked rather wet and fresh and... human.

Chugging down his remaining coffee, Severus put his cup together with the mountain of dishes on the kitchen counter.

"I trust you know of Scrimgeour's successor, my Lord?" he questioned casually while pondering if the dishes were worth taking care of. He decided no.

Riddle's answer was vague. "Hm? No, Severus, do tell me."

Severus leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. "Rabastan Lestrange got the job. I assume he shall tell you all about it the next gathering."

The detective paused briefly in his eyeball-storing and fixed his eyes on the Potions Master with a raised brow. "How come?"

Severus pushed himself away from the counter and went to pick up _The Prophet_ from where he'd left it by his armchair. He held the article about Rufus Scrimgeour's murder up for Riddle to see and pointed out a minimal paragraph in the corner, declaring Lestrange as the new Head of Auror Department.

"It appears neither Auror Shacklebolt nor Auror Moody has showed up for work in the past few weeks or so. The Ministry is getting desperate thanks to the war and doesn't have time to wait, and so Lestrange got the job as third man in queue to the post."

Severus would've put the newspaper on the tabletop for Riddle to read, but his potions supplies took up all the space already. He instead handed it to his lord.

Riddle took it and skimmed over the few sentences written about his Death Eater. Slowly, a dark smirk stretched the corners of his mouth.

"'_Auror Rabastan Lestrange valiantly takes up the title as Head of Auror Department after the tragic death of Auror Rufus Scrimgeour. Head Auror Lestrange expresses it as an honour, but also a heavy burden to take over from such a great man as Scrimgeour. We all wish him luck and hope Lestrange will lead our people to peace. May the dark side fall._'", the consulting detective read aloud, leaving the fridge open so the little alarm went peeping, telling them it was getting warm. Riddle put in the last eyeball and closed the door. "They cannot help writing about the war in every single article, can they?"

"Perhaps there is little else to write about, my Lord", murmured Severus, half to himself and half aloud, his eyes fixed on the wall. Riddle glanced up at him from the paper, considered him silently for a few seconds, then sighed and lowered _The Daily Prophet_ onto the kitchen counter together with the dishes, since there was nowhere else to put it but the floor... or the fridge.

"Perhaps you're right."

Riddle often knew when an uncomfortable silence was about to occur. The man was rather good at keeping them if they worked in his favour, though he was also remarkably talented in avoiding them. Now was one of those times. Riddle flipped through the pages and walked to the armchairs by the fireplace. He sat down in his, the one closest to the windows, and put the newspaper flat on his lap, a photography of familiar faces looking up at him with politely sneering faces.

Severus took one look at the article before seating himself opposite to the wizarding detective.

"Another Malfoy ball", he commented lazily, leaning back comfortably.

Riddle hummed. "This Saturday, yes. I trust you'll be there?"

"Of course, my Lord. Had you considered making an attendance yourself?"

Tom Riddle didn't socialize; it was a basic fact. However, that didn't mean Tom Riddle _never_ socialized. The only time the private detective went out on business that wasn't strictly connected to either of his professions, it was to make allies and manipulate. Because of this, his lord had no reason to attend small balls and parties, since Riddle was only interested in the influential population. In short, people like Cornelius Fudge. The Malfoy balls were therefore a splendid opportunity for Riddle. One, the Malfoys were loyal Death Eaters to him and would make sure he got invited. Two, they were a wealthy family with a lot of influence on the Ministry, meaning a lot of higher ranking employees were sure to attend the ball. Three, the Malfoy balls had and always would be enormous. Riddle wouldn't have a hard time blending into the crowds.

"I haven't decided quite yet", said Riddle, scanning the news article. "I understand the ball is in young Draco's honour?"

"Indeed, my Lord. June fifth is his birthday", Severus informed. "While it's arguable whether it's reasonable to celebrate turning nineteen with an entire ball, it _is_ a yearly tradition."

His lord raised a brow. "And you've been to every single one?"

Severus nodded sharply. "He is my godson, after all."

"You feel it's your duty?" asked Riddle nonchalantly, though Severus felt there was some mild honest interest in there somewhere. Not that it was worth searching for; it could be false as far as he knew.

"Yes", came his short answer.

A smirk pulled at Riddle's lips. "Do you miss it, Severus?"

The Potion's Master frowned lightly. "Miss what, my Lord?"

"Teaching", said Riddle simply. "Draco's last year was yours as well. As I recall, you quite enjoyed teaching your godson's class in his final year. Are you starting to regret you quit? That you... gave it up?"

The last sentence was said in a way that made Severus sure he was being mocked. He held back a scowl. Indeed, it was true two years had already gone since Severus last set foot on Hogwarts ground. Had it really been that long? He guessed it had. Time passed so quickly to him when he spent most of his days in the kitchen of a small apartment in Diagon Alley, brewing potions and assisting a Dark Lord playing detective and hero. He rarely went outside anymore, unless he was in need of more ingredients. Not that he had gone out much during his time as professor either, but now that he had the freedom... he simply couldn't bother himself with finding a reason to even open a window. Hell, even the curtains were drawn mostly, unless he was in a good mood or when Riddle was home.

Home... What a small meaning that word had to him these days. Severus didn't have a home. The apartment? He lived and slept here. He _hid_ here, from the rest of the world. 221B Diagon Alley wasn't a home to him. It was a corner of the world, a dark corner, and not a place he would ever feel at home in.

"I don't regret it, my Lord", he said at last. And he didn't, truly. Teaching had never been for him, and he was happy he was finally free after so many years. What he regretted was not living now that he had the chance. That he couldn't break free.

Riddle searched his face carefully. He breathed a tired sigh. "Sometimes I think you lie even when you tell the truth, Severus. You need to make up your mind."

"About what?" asked Severus, puzzled. Riddle just shook his head.

"No matter. Perhaps I should let you figure out your own head before I try myself." Riddle looked back to the paper and browsed the last few pages in a bored silence. Severus didn't move. He wasn't sure what to make of his lord's comment and therefore decided not to ponder further at the moment. If Severus spent time thinking about every strange thing Riddle said, he'd be busy until death.

"Have you set a date for the next gathering, my Lord?" asked the Potion's Master casually, studying the fine layer of dust over the logs in the fireplace. It had been so long since any of them used it.

"Tonight, I think."

Severus blanched. "So soon?"

Riddle shot him a dark look. "Are you questioning me?"

Severus shook his head quickly. "No, my Lord. Only surprised." He hesitated only a second before continuing, "I thought you'd want to focus more on the case."

"I am", said Riddle, almost snarling but not quite. The detective gained an irritated scowl on his face. Severus knew, after sharing an apartment with Riddle for so long, that the man's sudden temper meant he was frustrated. At least his eyes didn't turn red, as they sometimes did when his lord was truly furious.

So he hadn't gotten any further on the case? That would explain the bloodied harpoon. Severus knew that thing hadn't been used on Thestrals like Riddle said. The Potion's Master glanced at the weapon leaning against the wall next to the fireplace. It was starting to dry. If he looked closely, he could make out small chunks of flesh stuck to the metal. He looked away.

"May I retreat to my rooms, my Lord?" he dared ask, even with the man glaring holes into the wall.

Riddle stared at him hard, then bared his teeth scarcely and proceeded to ignore him. Severus took this as a yes and stood fluidly, though he wanted to jump up and run, and walked calmly to his room, which was through the kitchen and down the cramped corridor past the bathroom.

He closed the door behind him and picked a random book from the crammed shelf and plopped down onto the bed. Opening the book, he stared blankly at the first page for several long minutes, not reading a word.

He knew he'd do the same until the time of the gathering that night.

~~~!~~~

Harry sat on a park bench facing the Thames, enjoying the soft breeze of twilight playing with his hair and caressing his cheeks. The sun was setting leisurely in the horizon, casting a golden orange light over the water. Not far away rose Big Ben and London Eye. Harry had been at the top of Big Ben once. He feel asleep in a parking lot and dreamt of flying, and the next morning he'd woken up clutching something cold and with cold wind whipping his face. Turned out he'd somehow gotten himself to the top of the clock tower.

Luckily, no one had noticed. Or no one cared.

That was a long time ago. At the moment, Harry was nowhere near that far up. Or doing something as crazy as that. In his hands was the Wednesday's copy of a newspaper. Harry grinned down at the front page. He'd made it. There was the story about him, the bloodthirsty killer who "slayed innocent men". They even thought he was a woman with some kind of grudge against men. Harry chuckled.

He'd gotten over that last kill already. Whether the man had had a family and kids or not, no longer mattered to him. He'd learned how to push the feelings of remorse back to the point where the emotions almost turned into the opposite. Like he enjoyed murdering. Maybe he did. Maybe that was his only light moments in this life he was living.

But despite that, one feeling remained. A feeling he didn't want to feel. Curiosity. That burning want to _know_. To go back and search, to look for any clues about where that man came from. Where that _power_ came from. For it was a power, what he did with that stick of his. There were moments when Harry thought he must've imagined it, that he was alone after all, but then he'd move and the wound over his heart would stretch and tare. It would bleed. And it was a reminder to him, the killer, of what he had done and what he had ruined.

If he hadn't murdered that man, who's name the paper said was Rufus Scrimgeour, could he have come with him? Back to wherever he came from. To that place where freaks lived.

Harry had considered getting his own stick and try out some things, but quickly thought better of it. The stick Scrimgeour had wasn't a normal stick from the ground. Now in hindsight, Harry wished he'd just taken his stick before he fled. It was too late now. It was gone. All was gone.

Harry stood. The newspaper went into the trash can next to the park bench with a tinkering sound of beer cans knocking against each other. He started a stroll up along the Thames, admiring the way the water seemed to burn in the golden evening light. He slid his hands into his pockets, humming a soft foreign tune. There, his skin brushed against a neatly folded piece of paper. Fingers curling around it protectively, Harry looked up to the pink and orange sky.

The movie _Titanic_had its premier in November of 1997, about two years ago.There had been a fuss going about, and suddenly a lot more people were visiting the cinema. There were talks and articles about the movie that supposedly made the audience cry until the floor was covered in tears. Harry got curious, so very curious. So he'd gone. It had been like a need, to make up for all those times the Dursleys went to the cinema in the evening and left Harry home alone, in his dark cupboard and a dead silent house.

He'd stolen, or _borrowed_, a ticket from two young girls both with their handbags carelessly open and unwatched. Harry had simply walked by passively, fished the little ticket up from the bag and moved along to the movie salon without problem.

Harry hadn't cried. In fact, it turned out most of the movie was quite boring. The romance entertained him less than the countless pigeons in Trafalgar Square, and the people insisting on feeding the little winged rats.

But even if the only part of the movie Harry enjoyed was the ending, there was something about the experience that lodged into his heart like a small piece of shattered glass. It came as no surprise when he was back the very next month on the 9th of December to experience another big premiere.

It was the movie that made Harry fall in love with cinema. _Tomorrow Never Dies_ was until the present day a film he remembered with warmth. James Bond was the only person he'd ever respected, even with his silly weapons and strange tools, and M was the one woman he wished had been his mother. The month of December that year had little food for him, not thanks to himself. Every little penny he could steal went to buying tickets to see the movie again and again. It was so much better than _Titanic_. Harry used to dream he was Harry Bond, the secret spy who saved the world from the bad guys.

They were only dreams, of course, for Harry knew very well in his awaken mind that he was no good guy. James Bond killed for justice. Harry just murdered.

But Harry didn't let that get him down. He got over it, and he got over it well. The true guilt stopped coming at least a year ago, if not earlier.

The next James Bond movie had premier the 26th of November this year, 1999, though since it was still early summer Harry had to see something else instead. Luckily, or maybe unluckily, one of the cinemas in London showed _Titanic_ again for a short while. The poster outside the building had awoken that little shard of warmth Harry held for the memory of his first ever movie, and before he knew it he'd spent his little amount of money on a ticket.

Harry squeezed the paper in his pocket and gazed one last time over the reflected golden light over the Thames, before turning and walking away.

He had a three hour movie to watch.

~~~!~~~

Why did he do this, again?

Harry trudged down the street, returning back to the park from the cinema. The hour was late, almost midnight, and the air was unusually crisp for summer. Not that he knew the time for sure, though; he didn't have a watch. And that's why he was nearly late for the movie in the first place. It had started only seconds after he found his seat. Although, truth be told, he kinda wished now he'd been too late after all.

Snorting to himself, Harry kicked at an empty soda can, sending it spinning over the sidewalk. He glared after it, as if it was the can's fault he spent all that money to see a movie he didn't even like. Hm. And what a waste of time. Three hours…

The beginning was worst. Nothing happened and then nothing continued to happen for about two hours straight. His only entertainment had been the woman seated on the row before Harry, right in the chair in front of him. She'd brought a whole box of tissues and started bawling her eyes out at the first shot of Jack, the man of the romance. It only got worse when the first scene of Jack and Rose together showed up and the woman began blowing her running nose, managing to drown out the sound of the movie.

Harry hadn't minded. He'd kept himself busy by counting all the tissues the woman used and waiting for the moment when she's surely pass out from dehydration. However, his enjoyment was short lived as the woman suddenly jumped in her seat at about the one-hour mark of the movie. She hastily got up, tottered her way down the row and left the saloon. But not before she hastily glanced his way, giving Harry a view of her red nose and puffy eyes.

Well, one good thing came from the experience. The man beside him, there with who appeared to be his wife, had carelessly left his jacket pocket open. With the distraction of the sinking ship on the screen, it was no feat for Harry to simply sneak his hand over and grab the wallet there. He got forty five pounds for the effort. Nice.

On the bad side, he now had a stupid rock ballad stuck in his head. His heart kept going on and on… and on and on _and on_.

"Argh!" He let out a groan and pressed the palms of his hands to his ears, but it was to no avail. Only sleep would free him from the curse of Celine Dion and that blasted flute.

With a sigh, Harry let his hands fall back to his sides. At least he had money for coffee.

~~~!~~~

"Lestrange, stay behind."

Lord Voldemort let his gaze sweep lazily over the heads trickling out through the main entrance of the throne room. Most were in an obvious hurry, others moved with a more dignified lethargy, Severus Snape being one of them. The old Hogwarts professor was incredibly tense during the entire gathering, shoulders stiff and jaws clenched. He hadn't been looking openly at him - just watched him from the corner of his eye - but he knew he should've made his assistant stay home. Even between former friends like Rabastan Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy, Severus looked stressed and uncomfortable. What a hermit the man had become. Worse, the Dark Lord didn't know what to do about it, so he let the Potions Master be. It was a mystery, however, how the man expected he'd make it through and entire ball at the Malfoys' the upcoming weekend, when he could barely stand being in a crowded room for little less than an hour.

The throne room emptied quickly until only Lord Voldemort and three Death Eaters remained. The Dark Lord rose from his throne, which stood on a pedestal with some steps leading up to it, and gracefully descended towards his servants.

"I believe I only asked for one of you to stay", he pointed out and eyed them all slowly in a manner he knew was intimidating.

The Death Eater in the middle, Rodolphus Lestrange, glanced to his brother. "My Lord, you asked for Lestrange to stay behind. I'm afraid there was some confusion as to whom you meant."

The third Death Eater giggled happily and clapped her hands. "My Lord is so cryptic! He says so wise things it's sometime hard to understand." She stared at him with mad adoration. "Please forgive our hollow minds, my Lord, we simply lost them somewhere."

Rodolphus shot a glare at the hysterical witch, but refrained from speech. Bellatrix was near tears, reminding the Dark Lord of the half blood Death Eater that came late to the meeting. He should've _crucioed _her, but she'd been in tears and still came in quietly, so he let it go. Salazar, he was growing soft.

"Leave, Bella", he said in a bored tone. "You're not a Lestrange anymore."

Bellatrix looked stricken. "B-but my Lord, I-"

Voldemort's eyes flashed crimson. "Don't make me say it twice."

She stared at him silently for a moment, as if hoping he'd changed his mind, until her shoulders sagged in defeat and she heaved a sigh.

"Yes, my Lord."

"Goodbye, Bella."

The witch ambled out of the room, grumbling incoherent words and glaring daggers at the floor. The three men remaining waited for the doors to close after her before speaking. It was Rodolphus that broke the silence.

"Please forgive her, my Lord. She hasn't been herself since the divorce", he explained, though there was no sign of remorse on his face. "She needs time to settle down."

The Dark Lord nodded thoughtfully, glancing at the door through which Bellatrix just disappeared. His once favourite Death Eater wasn't her old self anymore. When Rodolphus left her, she refused to accept it and kept addressing herself as Bellatrix Lestrange rather than Black. Even after spending several months in the company of her sister Narcissa at the Malfoy Manor, she was unstable and easily angered. He regretted she'd become so unreliable, but it did no good to dwell on the past when the present demanded so much attention. He had to leave her behind and trust Narcissa to take good care of her.

"No matter", he drawled and switched topics. "I understand you have good news, Rabastan?"

The younger Lestrange brother nodded and stepped forward. His hands were held clasped behind his back and his hair tied back to a loose ponytail. The style reminded Voldemort of Severus when he brewed, as he had the habit of tying it up.

"My Lord, you might have heard, I have been promoted to Head of Auror Department after Scrimgeour", said Rabastan formally, gazed fixed on a spot over Voldemort's shoulder.

"So I've heard", responded the Dark Lord, allowing a pleased smirk to stretch his lips. "You have done well."

Rabastan nodded once, stiffly. "Thank you, my Lord. I will do my best to make you satisfied."

"I've no doubt you will. But now that things are different, we have a few adjustments to make." He waited for Rabastan to nod, then continued, "I will need to hear about every case taken to the department, as well as access to the criminal records. Since you are Head of the department now, I can't see any problems with that. However, it would seem suspicious to the public if Detective Riddle shows up regularly at the Ministry. You'll have to come to my apartment at 221B Diagon Alley to deliver the needed information and files."

"Of course, my Lord. Am I allowed to come at any time, or should I contact you before visiting?" asked the man, all business. Voldemort thought it over. He only slept and occasionally ate in the apartment himself unless he didn't have a case, in which case he spent most of the time experimenting. Severus, though, was another topic altogether. He didn't know how his partner would react to Rabastan visiting their apartment at a regular basis. There was the risk that he'd draw back further, but on the other hand Severus needed to get used to human company again. Perhaps this was exactly what the Potions Master needed.

"Come as you please. I matters little to me", he decided. Actually, he was quite curious about the files that had so far been inaccessible to him. So many years of unnecessarily hard work for information that was already on paper was now over. He despised paperwork.

A soft clearing of throat brought the Dark Lord out of his thoughts. He looked to Rodolphus expectantly and the man bowed his head slightly.

"Excuse me, my Lord, but I cannot quite see the purpose of my partaking in this discussion", he explained.

Voldemort raised a brow at him. "What do you do, Rodolphus?"

The older brother's head snapped up in surprise. "I'm sorry?"

"What do you do when you're not here? You're the Lestrange Lord, but you have no job and you're not involved in politics. What keeps you going all day?" inquired Voldemort, staring straight into the man's eyes.

Rodolphus looked almost confused. "Not much, my Lord. I… keep check on the bank accounts, I suppose."

Voldemort sighed, barely noticeably. "There are twentyfour hours of the day, eight out of which an adult man usually sleeps. About one and a half hours of the day goes to eating and taking care of the body. Are you telling me you spend almost fifteen hours every day to '_check on the bank accounts_', as you so nicely put it?"

The Lestrange Lord stood silent, staring dumbfoundedly at his lord and desperately trying to come up with something so say in response. Rabastan was quiet as well, not sure whether to interfere and defend his brother or not.

Finally, Rodolphus sighed and said weakly, "I do take walks in the garden sometimes."

The Dark Lord nodded. "It's settled then. You'll be joining your brother."

Rabastan started and looked to his brother. "My lord?" he asked in confusion.

"I'll need assistance to look through all the files you'll be sending me, Rabastan. Who would be of better help than Rodolphus, who obviously has great experience with paperwork after all that checking of bank accounts."

Rodolphus stammered uncharacteristically. "M-my Lord, are you sure? I-I don't-"

"Quite sure, yes. I'll be expecting you both sometime next week." He turned on his heel, walking towards the small door at the back of the throne room that only he used. Before leaving, he spoke to the Lestrange brothers over his shoulder. "If I'm not there, Severus should be around. He'll take care of you. Until then, Rabastan, Rodolphus."

The door closed behind him with a soft sound that echoed in the silence. As Lord Voldemort made his way through the mansion towards the office, he pondered over the plans he'd made and tried to tell himself it wasn't all for Severus.

Well, who was he kidding? He just hoped that Potions Bastard got better after this.


	5. Coat and Scarf

_June 3rd, Friday morning, 221B Diagon Alley_

Rabastan Lestrange knocked thrice, rapidly, on the door to his lord's apartment. The hour was early yet, and he was dressed in casual work robes kept open at the front, leaving a cream white shirt and a brown vest of fine material visible. He was off to the Ministry directly afterwards.

It was not often that he visited people in this way; knocking on their door. His preferred transportation method was the floo. But, as every pureblooded child was taught at a young age, it was rude and improper to barge in through the fireplace were you not strictly invited to come in that way, and so this was more polite. Besides, he wasn't particularly eager to find out what kind of reaction the Dark Lord would have to someone suddenly invading his living room.

Rabastan stood a good while without any signs of someone answering the door. As he stood waiting in the dusty hallway with walls clad in old yellowed wallpaper, Rabastan reasonably began to doubt he'd gotten the right address. Now inspecting it, the place sure appeared rather common and cheap for a man of such power as his lord. Not that it was any of Rabastan's business, of course.

A click signaled the door being unlocked, and the Head Auror took a respectful step back. It creaked open slowly, revealing a pale head with long strips of dark hair and two black eyes peering ominously at him through the crack, like a shadowy nocturnal creature from the depths of a cave.

"Yes?" came the curt greeting.

"Snape?" Rabastan inquired. Although he'd seen the man a good few times at Death Eater gatherings, he had never directly spoken to the man before and he couldn't remember Snape looking quite so... waxen. Rabastan cleared his throat, flickered his eyes a little to the left. "Good morning. May I enter?"

"No", was the sharp reply. The gap narrowed, very much like Snape's eyes. "Why are you here?"

The Head Auror frowned disapprovingly. "I have business with the Dark Lord." He paused. "Is he not available?"

"No. Good bye."

The door closed abruptly, the clicking of locks following shortly. Rabastan stood frozen in astonishment, staring blankly at the wooden surface. How in the name of Merlin did his lord endure this behaviour on a daily basis?

The other side was dead silent. The Auror would bet his wand Snape was lurking over there, waiting for him to leave. Rabastan's frown deepened. He lifted his hand and knocked again, harder.

"Snape! It's urgent. Let me in." On afterthought, he quickly added, "Please."

Slowly, almost painfully so, the other unlocked the door and opened. Rabastan caught a glimpse of two worn armchairs and a messy mantelpiece on the other side. Common, indeed. Snape glared at him through the small crack.

"He's not here", he barked, voice clipped.

Rabastan took the opportunity to slip his foot in between the door and door frame, earning him a look of bewilderment from the greasy haired man.

"He told me you'd be here to assist me if he was not", countered Rabastan.

Snape's glare seemed to darken at that, though he was silent in thought for a little while. In the end, Snape grudgingly pushed the door open a little further.

"You're not coming in", he warned, but at least now Rabastan was able to look at him properly. The man was thin, alarmingly so, and pale as a ghost. Rabastan frowned internally at the image of the former Hogwarts teacher. It was a good thing he hadn't picked a career as a Potions Master himself, or else that could be him in Snape's shoes.

"I'm here to deliver some files", explained the Head Auror, bringing forth a portfolio the size of a matchbox from a pocket inside his robes. Taking out his wand, Rabastan unshrinked it to its normal size. "Please do not attempt to read them. They are meant exclusively for our lord."

The Potions Master nodded once, took the portfolio as it was offered to him, and slammed the door shut. Rabastan was just quick enough to save his foot from being crushed. The locks clicked once more. Silence followed.

"Good day, then", offered the younger Lestrange brother to the door. There was no reply, and so he turned around and swiftly left 221B Diagon Alley.

On the other side, Snape, dressed in morning gown and slippers, fumed silently at his lord.

**~~~!~~~**

_A few hours later, 221B._

"I'm back."

Severus tensed unconsciously at the sound of the door opening, inconveniently splashing a drop too many of moke urine (whoever claimed Potions Mastery was a glamorous occupation?) into the potion, causing the content of the cauldron to bubble and fizzle angrily. Severus quickly added a pinch of pulverized mermaid scales to level out the concoction.

Riddle entered the kitchen. It took the consulting wizard detective less than two seconds to zero in on the portfolio resting innocently in the kitchen sink (the only reasonably empty surface in the entire kitchen). Severus glanced at it in spite, then back at his lord.

"One of the Lestranges came by with it this morning. For you", he explained drily, stirring the potion a bit more violently than required.

Riddle didn't comment as he took three quick steps for the sink. He picked up the portfolio, held it in his hands, and looked straight at Severus.

"It's wet", he remarked flatly.

Severus adverted his gaze, pretended to pay extra care to a bottle of dead fertilized pixie eggs. "I've no idea how it got that way, my lord. Perhaps the tap is leaking."

"It's soaked."

"Indeed?"

A tense silence filled the space between them. Riddle stared at him hard, while Severus did his best to look away. It came as a relief when Riddle silently left the kitchen a minute later, without furthers curses or remarks. The Potions Master let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and leaned heavily on the cramped kitchen table. It wobbled dangerously at the added weight. He must be coming down with a fever, because he couldn't think of any other reason for the slight dizziness and unease he'd felt since morning. It wasn't like him at all to behave irrationally like this. Something wasn't right.

Heaving a heavy sigh, Severus continued to brew.

**~~~!~~~**

_Friday night, 221B._

Tom Riddle was _not_ confused. It did not bother him in the least that the big amounts of papers on the desk in front of him gave not a single plausible clue about who murdered Rufus Scrimgeour. An insect had him more agitated that this. Getting angry at a bunch of papers was ridiculous, if not ludicrous. And no, he wasn't confused. He had a plan and at least fifty theories.

Well, he'd had that before he started to do research on it. Out of all the piles of documents piled up on his desk, collected from both the muggle police force and a small bit from the Ministry (the start of Rabastan's work), only one single paragraph hinted to a criminal witch with muggle identity in London. Her name was Margaret Gregor and was from a non-magical home, and had a past record of thievery and suspected attempted murder of her brother. Tom had straightened in his chair and rushed for the floo to call Rabastan. The man immediately went to look up the name, however came back with bad news. Margaret Gregor died five years ago after one fight too many with a gang member. Her body washed up near Big Ben by the Thames. Tom inquired if the body was checked for polyjuice or glamours, but Rabastan assured him there was no possible way she was alive to this day.

Now Tom was near pacing. Leaning against the wall next to the window of his bedroom, he cast a long look at the violin case on the bed. Shaking his head, he looked away out to Diagon Alley. The windows were, of course, spelled so one could only look out, not in.

Down there, the last shops were closing up for the night. The consulting detective watched through the shop window as Olivander put out the lights and locked the door. Merlin knew the old man never left his shop; he as good as lived in it. Before Olivander turned, he met Tom's eyes. For a moment, the detective could've sworn the other man looked straight at him, despite the charmed windows, but in the next moment the wandmaker had disappeared into his shop and the last lights went out. Tom looked away.

The moon was rising swiftly as the sun set. Although Diagon Alley wasn't technically London, it was right in the middle of the large city. Therefore you couldn't see many stars even from here, since the streetlights of London blocked out the lights of the sky. Now it was all black, and the moon was a shining spot of white fire.

Suddenly feeling uncharacteristically exasperated, Tom turned away from the window. Soft noises came from the kitchen, where Severus still clinkered with his cauldrons and bottles. For all Tom knew, his partner would be up all night, brewing and filling vials.

With a last glance at the stacks of papers, he left the bedroom. He'd get nowhere from here anyway and he wasn't tired in the least. He moved through the small living room with long strides and went for his muggle outdoors outfit hanging by the front door. Tom shrugged into the long black coat and draped the blue scarf around his neck.

"I'm going out", he declared curtly, already halfway out the door.

"Yes, my-"

The slam of the door behind him cut Severus off. Tom moved down the stairs. He passed the landlady, whatever her name was, dusting the portraits in the hallway. She looked up at him, eyes round like saucers with either wonder or fear, and didn't take her eyes off him until he was out of the building.

He needed to leave the Wizarding World, if only for a few hours to clear his mind.

**~~~!~~~**

He hadn't visited London outside of business for a long while. Last he could remember was during his Hogwarts days when the orphanage was still his prison and the second World War still raged on. He was well out of school when the last battle finally ended. Tom remembered he had looked down on the muggles with disgust. They, killers of their own race, were like dirt under his feet.

Today was decades from then, and the world had changed a lot. Life had changed. It had, somehow, become… bigger.

Even back then Tom had killed people of magical core. He didn't regret it. He never did regret much; it just wasn't part of his personality. Why go through life drowned in remorse when he could live with pride?

Tom passed a nightclub, just opened based on the large amounts of people standing in line to get in. He fixed his gaze on the security guard. The doorman outside the entrance was pale with dark circles under misty eyes. So the man had another demanding job during the day. He got little sleep, then, perhaps none at all during weekends. He wore a dark blue suit, but it wasn't expensive. There were splinters from a pencil sharpener on the left sleeve, but too much for only one round of sharpening, so he had a job where he frequently used pencils. An office? Probably. That was where the suit came from. It was the only one, or one of few, that he owned and didn't change outfit between jobs. However, pencils were beginning to become outdated and were replaced by computers, or at least pens. Not an office then? No.

What else? Glasses, thin frame but rather thick lenses. Hair, also thin and bordering to grey, but only near the scalp. He dyed his hair light brown, last time was nearly three our four weeks ago depending on the brand. A job around many people, then, and he'd want to look his best. Eyes, crow's feet at the corners, covered by smudges of makeup. Clumsily applied. A newly discovered mid-life crisis, most likely, considering the night-time job. He hadn't adjusted to the late schedule yet; he was new to the job.

He wanted to look young, but why? And the suit, it was cheap, but not necessarily given by the employer. No, he bought it himself. Low income. But why would he bother buying a suit from the start then? It was mandatory to his day-time workplace.

A man with a middle-age crisis who wanted to look young, worked in a crowded workplace, wore cheap suits, low pay, and used pencils...

Ah, a teacher. University, most likely. Doesn't necessarily pay well. Tests were corrected and graded with pencils. Pen marks couldn't be erased. He'd had the job for a long time and was used to being around the young people he taught. Now, he'd just started to notice how much older than them he is, nearing forty in age. No rings on; an unmarried man. No children. He recently realized it would soon be too late if he wanted to become a father. He started working early in life as well, right after graduating. He never partied in his youth and tried to make up for that now, but he didn't have any money for it.

Pathetic.

Tom passed the nightclub in less than thirty seconds. The guard didn't see him and Tom didn't mean to be seen. Crossing the street at the next junction, he faced a long road. The sign said New Oxford Street. Although he wasn't far from The Leaky Cauldron, this part of Muggle London was a bit unfamiliar to him. Scrimgeour's body was found in the opposite direction and Tom hadn't bothered to search more than a five hundred meter radius around the crime scene. The muggle police could do the rest if they so desired. He'd visited the places where the other four bodies were found as well, though they were all spread out over London. Either the murderer was trying to confuse the police or they had some other motive.

Starting down New Oxford Street, on which there was yet ongoing traffic and muggles milling about, Tom paid little attention to the city noise as he went over the clues for the case in his head.

The victims. Five dead found, all with the same suspected murderer. All men. Did it mean something? The muggle police made it seem like it did, but it might've just been a coincidence. Gender didn't always matter, but the role of the person played a much bigger part in the crime. Four muggles, one wizard. Three men of rather low class, one muggle drug lord, one pureblood Head of Auror Department. Why?

Tom contemplated the chances of racism, though only one of the muggles had dark skin and none had backgrounds outside of Britain, and that only left Scrimgeour as another 'race'. Not racism, then. A grudge against beggars, more likely. That wasn't uncommon.

It was in that moment, as he passed the street by a hat store and a post office, that Tom felt something extraordinary. Something familiar. Something powerful.

The feeling was only the faintest of sensations, but he knew he'd recognize it anywhere even if he'd only truly felt it once before. The tips of his fingers tingled, his heart rate quickened. Finally. He wouldn't let it go this time.

The pull came from his left, bringing him off New Oxford Street and down one of the smaller roads of London. The stores were not the flashiest and the apartments not the priciest, though, mind you, they weren't cheap either.

The detective moved down the street with confidence and accelerating speed. His blue scarf, once purchased in a fine muggle store, flapped over his shoulder rather like a small cape, and his coat much resembled the way Severus' robes used to when the man made them billow.

With every step, every breath, Tom felt the presence grow stronger. His pace quickened until he was just about running, and though he'd went so far towards the aura, he felt like it never stopped growing. It continued to grow; stronger, more radiant and alluring. There was no chance, _no chance_, he'd lose track of that aura again. It wouldn't slip past him this time.

Just then, a slim figure slipped out from an alley further ahead of him. In that exact second, the intensity of the aura increased like an explosion. Tom's eyes widened, a hungry smirk graced his lips.

He'd found him.


End file.
